Grief
by arrogantbullyingtoerag
Summary: James Potter knew an awful lot about a great many things.


James Potter knew an awful lot about a great many things. Quidditch, primarily; he understood balance and speed better than most. Gravity, too (more than he'd like), and how best to utilise the three with respect to one another. He knew the exact weight of a Quaffle, as well as how and _where _to hold it. James understood mahogany. He could tell you Puddlemere United's line-up over the past century-and-a-half , a detailed history of their League Cup victories thus far, and recount each and every goal of Joscelind Wadcock's career. Similarly, the boy was uncommonly familiar with Hogwarts' Quidditch history; all four houses.

He knew about the castle too; more than most and a lot that he shouldn't. In fact, the Gryffindor was quite certain that he knew more of Hogwarts even than Professor Binns, who had not only been there for a millennium or two, but could quite literally _walk through walls. _James Potter understood Transfiguration; could explain in vivid detail the muscular and skeletal adjustments involved in transforming boy to beast. He was a talented dueller, skilled at Gobstones, and knew a thing or two about Wizard's Chess, to say the least.

The seventeen-year-old was well-versed in the manners and niceties of high society; had learnt to tie a tie before his shoes (and to ride a broom before them both). He knew about werewolves, and the Forbidden Forest besides. James Potter understood Potions better than he let on, and had a considerable grasp over advanced spell work. He was practiced in magic, mischief, and mirth. James knew ecstasy; _Merlin_, did he know ecstasy. He understood laughter more than most—the way it clung to your spine and invaded your lungs—but he knew rage, and frustration, and jealousy, too. Sometimes, James even understood discontent.

He knew nothing of grief.

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was not designed for long stays. Unlike muggle hospitals, its patients—more often than not—got better; and quickly, too. When they _did _go the other way, however, as was sometimes wont to happen, that never took a great deal of time, either. Magic was a fast-moving sort of thing, and its victims were quite the same. Thanks to a marked improvement in both staff training and administration over the past 50 years (both of which James' mother had played a considerable part in), as well as the implementation of sister sites, Mungo's was—for the most part—an overnight facility.

_For the most part._

Grace Potter's room was a great deal smaller than she was used to, but her son and husband both had filled it with relics of home. She didn't mind the size so much. It was a pleasant sort of cramped, if anything—contentedly cluttered—and not half so cramped as her sons neck, besides. James, who had taken to sleeping on the couch at her bedside, didn't mind so much either. It was the least of his concerns, in any case. Charles Potter, too, spent an awful lot of time in the tiny room. They were tired, the lot of them, but happy somehow. It was the first summer in six years that James had spent almost solely with his parents. He wasn't quite sure how to feel about that, and so decided it best to feel nothing at all.

As time wore on, his father had greater need of the couch, and before June was through, a second bed had been crammed in its place. James slept on an oaken chair in the corner, then, head propped up against the wall and legs outstretched atop his mother's suitcase. Somehow, the boy slept more that summer than he had in many months. He _studied_, moreover (if only because it made his mother smile), and spoke animatedly of Duelling with his father. Grace reminisced often, but that was nothing new, and Charles took to whistling. Within a week, James had picked up the habit. He did not plan on dropping it any time soon.

All the while they told him they loved him.

It was a Wednesday morning when Grace Potter began to cough, and did not stop for many hours. With every breath, an apology. His father grew increasingly agitated after that, and would start with every sudden intake of breath. He, however, was the first to bring up blood.

Grief was a process, James supposed, and that was when his began.

From then on, his parents slept more often than not, and the seventeen-year-old spent hour after hour alone with denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. Denial was almost always reserved for their waking hours, and depression for whilst they slept. Anger reared its ugly head less often, to be sure, but was never more evident in the boy than when a writer from the Prophet came to collect "the Potter's last words". Bargaining, however, was a thrice-daily occurrence; James promised the Healers their weight in gold if they could just fix his parents, told his mother he'd get all E's if she got out of bed, and his father that he'd become an Auror after all. He kept them updated on Quidditch, of course, but warned that Puddlemere would only make the World Cup if they were well. His mother smiled at that. It was something.

Acceptance was yet to come.

It was a Monday when Mrs. Potter awoke from a fitful rest to ask if her son had his wand. He replied in the affirmative, and that must have been comfort enough, for she soon returned to sleep. The next day was much the same. "Good," his mother told him a few days after that, "Keep it with you, sweetheart. It has magic. Your magic... Oh, it's all so happy."

That Sunday his father didn't recognise him, but only for a moment.

Time stood still after that, or else it carried on without his knowing. James partook in the fragmented conversations his parents afforded him when they could, but else wise did little. He must have stopped writing, then, but couldn't be sure; in any case, if letters arrived, the boy never read them. Puddlemere made the Cup some time therein, and when James informed his parents that they must have been better, neither smiled. Acceptance crept closer.

Life went on, until it didn't. It was on the 21st of July—a Thursday—that Grace Potter wrapped frail fingers around her son's thumb and forefinger, muttered something about Rowena Ravenclaw, and left him. After that, James felt every second. His father, who had so often asked "what would I do without you", was gone before the month was through.

He couldn't tell you when acceptance came, just that it did.

Sirius helped. Remus and Peter, too. He was alright. Their (constant) companionship was a comfort, to be sure, and fickle conversation moreso. The boy liked it best that way; when they spoke of _nothings _instead of _somethings. _He was alright. He could laugh (it had always come easily to him, after all). He was alright, and not a one complained of his whistling.

James Potter was alright, but that was not to say he was okay.


End file.
